


The way it shines for you and I

by dezemberzarin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezemberzarin/pseuds/dezemberzarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The outlines of a city are starting to shape in the distance and Thiago points to it as he leans over Mario, his breath warm against his cheek. </p>
<p>“Barcelona. My home.” His voice is a low rumble against Mario’s ear, the accent giving the city’s name a rolling quality that makes him shiver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The way it shines for you and I

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, I wanted to write porn, not angst. I just have a lot of feelings about Mario these days and this made me feel better. Also, the song I'm thinking of/had playing in the background the entire time is _Shine_ by Benjamin Francis Leftwitch.

Mario barely pays attention to the flight attendant’s routine as he gazes out the small window to his left, so familiar with the song and dance that he could perform it himself at this point. He’s not sure whether there’s a record somewhere of how many times he’s flown in his life, but the number must be in the hundreds, if not thousands by now. It’s late afternoon and the sun is painting Munich’s tarmac a golden light, their plane’s shadow sliding along beside them like a ghost. 

The entire plane is quiet, everyone already settling in to sleep or listen to music. They all have their own row and Mario uses the space to curl up sideways, stuffs a pillow beneath his head to get comfortable. The flight will be less than two hours, but these days he takes every opportunity to nap, an inexplicable exhaustion weighing him down even after getting his usual eight hours of sleep a night. Well. Inexplicable might be overstating it. 

Mario idly wonders what new rumor will have sprung up by the time their plane touches down in Barcelona as he closes his eyes. Chances are that a new column about his failures as both a professional footballer and as a human being is being written right now. He tries to swallow down the bitter disappointment as the two missed chances from their last game replay themselves in his mind again. He was so close then, could almost taste the satisfaction of silencing at least some of the critics that are already branding him a fallen wunderkind. And when he lay on the pitch, face buried in the sweet-smelling grass, there was that tiny voice that never seems to miss these opportunities.

_What if they’re right?_

*

He’s woken by someone falling into the seat next to his, the movement tugging on the blanket he tucked around himself earlier. A brief glance reveals that it’s Thiago, who smiles once he sees that Mario is awake, putting a finger on his lips before jerking his head to the side, motioning for Mario to follow him. Mario is honestly not in the mood for anything his teammate might have come up with, but he’s also too tired to argue and Thiago’s hand on his sleeve is insistent. 

Thiago slides his grip to Mario’s wrist once they’re both in the aisle, tugging him towards the other side of the plane and past their sleeping teammates. Thiago’s row is a mess, blankets and pillows strewn about and empty wrappers crinkling beneath Mario’s feet as he slides into the seat next to the closed window. Thiago takes the one right next to him, leaning over Mario to get at the window’s blinds. 

Mario is about to ask him what the hell they’re doing when Thiago finally manages to slide up the partition, revealing a view so spectacular that Mario actually forgets to breathe for a moment. The countryside beneath them is painted a deep red and gold, the setting sun wavering above the horizon. Up here though, the sky is already turning an inky midnight blue, the first stars appearing above them like ships navigating an endless ocean. The outlines of a city are starting to shape in the distance and Thiago points to it as he leans over Mario, his breath warm against his cheek. 

“Barcelona. My home.” His voice is a low rumble against Mario’s ear, the accent giving the city’s name a rolling quality that makes him shiver. 

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, because it is. It’s maybe one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen and nothing that may be waiting for him down there can change that. 

“I’ll show you,” Thiago murmurs. “Not this time, maybe. Summer. You’ve not experienced life until you’ve been to Barcelona in the summer.” 

Mario smiles despite himself. It’s a nice thought, even if it most likely won’t happen. 

There’s a pause and then Thiago touches his shoulder, waits for Mario to look at him until he leans in, whispers the words against his ear. “Have dinner with me tonight.” 

Mario feels the flutter in his stomach that promises to settle into something heavier, more simmering if he lets it. He swallows hard, remembering the last time Thiago said those words to him. There’s no mistaking the heat in the dark eyes, gazing at him with something like hope. He should decline. They’ll have their last training session tomorrow. His final shot at convincing Pep to start him. He should rest, maybe try and go to sleep early. 

He says yes anyway. 

*

His relationship with Thiago is something that Mario still can’t describe even two years after meeting him for the first time. They’re friends, sure, the same way Mario is friends with most of the guys on the team. They came to Bayern at the same time and that feeling of being the new kids on the block shaped them, made them stick up for each other and celebrate the other’s success as if it was their own. But they don’t hang out much apart from work and Mario didn’t see Thiago at all for his rehab, which seemingly went on forever as he recovered back in Barcelona. 

There are others Mario should feel closer to and yet it’s Thiago in his hotel room now, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a white shirt as he fumbles with the speakers to his Ipod, setting it up on one of the window sills. They didn’t turn on any of the lamps and so it’s just the light from the street spilling into the room through the open balcony doors, carrying the late night noise of a city that hasn’t settled into sleep yet. 

Comfort, Mario decides as he watches Thiago move around the room, the muscles in his back shifting beneath the tight shirt he’s wearing. That’s the word he’s looking for. Somehow Thiago makes him feel safe, in ways Mario himself can’t quite explain. It’s the reason he doesn’t hesitate when Thiago offers his hand, pulls him up and close as he slides an arm around Mario’s waist. 

Mario’s ballroom dance lessons were interrupted by his call to the professionals when he was seventeen (his mother was very disappointed), but there’s little intricacy to the steps and Thiago leads him easily, lacing his fingers through Mario’s and cradling their entwined hands against his chest as they sway around the room, the music an easy rhythm flowing around them, leading their steps. 

It should feel ridiculous and yet it’s anything but, Thiago’s hands warm and his eyes filled with nothing but easy happiness as he looks at Mario, pulling him closer until they’re flush against each other. Mario hooks his chin over Thiago’s shoulder before he can think better of it, resting it there and smiling when Thiago starts whispering the words to the song they’re dancing to against his ear, his thick accent giving them a crooning quality that slides hot into Mario’s belly. 

The kiss is slow when it happens, Thiago sliding his hands to Mario’s hips as he brushes their mouths together. They’ve done this only once before, but Mario remembers it vividly as he takes Thiago’s face in his hands, kissing him back with a hunger he didn’t know he felt until just now. They’re still swaying to the music and the movement has become sinuous, Thiago’s hands moving to grip his ass instead of his hips, pulling him closer until Mario can rub up against his thigh. 

He sighs when Thiago slides his tongue into his mouth and then they’re dragging each other’s clothes off, baring tanned skin and muscle to the warm evening air as they stumble towards the pristine hotel bed. Time seems to slip by faster and faster and it only slows once Thiago is inside of him, the heavy weight of him making Mario gasp as he tries to gain enough leverage on Thiago’s chest to ride him. The hot grasp of Thiago’s hands on his hips is making it harder, his dark eyes almost reverent as he gazes up at Mario. 

They lie in each other’s arms in the tangled sheet afterwards, the warm air only slowly cooling the sweat on their bodies. Thiago is nuzzling into his hair and Mario’s hand is still drawing patterns against Thiago’s belly, combing lazily through the dark hair beneath his navel. The kiss to his cheek makes him turn his head and Thiago smiles at him, unguarded and affectionate. 

“You look happy,” he says. “I like it.” 

Mario feels his breath catch in his throat, the hidden meaning beneath the words hanging heavy in the air. “I am happy,” he tries, knows how weak it sounds even as he says it. 

Thiago looks at him for a long while and when he smiles again, there’s something sad in the twist of his lips. “Don’t let them take away your joy for the game. They can talk all day long, in the end you’re still going to be playing for the best club in the world.” 

Mario feels his chest tighten at that, the words bitter on his tongue when he says them. “I’m not going to be the one playing.”

“You don’t know that.“ 

“I do,” Mario says quietly, glancing away to avoid the sympathy he sees in Thiago’s eyes. He hesitates, then decides it doesn’t matter now anyway. He might as well give voice to the fear that’s been his constant companion for the past two years. “He doesn’t believe in me.” 

Thiago’s eyes widen at that, something like anger flickering across his face as he takes Mario in. Mario waits for him to lie, to promise that their coach believes in all of them. He doesn't though and instead reaches up to trace Mario’s cheekbone, a tender touch that belies the hard edge in his expression. 

“Forget about him. I believe in you. Always have.” 

Mario knows that’s true. He’s seen the admiration in Thiago’s eyes after their games, read his message after he scored that golden goal in the Cup, remembers the delight Thiago shows when Mario pulls off one of his tricks in training. Thiago has always believed in him, even when they barely knew each other. 

He doesn’t trust his voice and so he puts every ounce of gratitude into his kiss, sliding his tongue against Thiago’s until they’re both breathless and scrabbling at each other’s skin again. It’s a long time until they slip into sleep together, the noise from the city a gentle lull as Mario buries his face in the back of Thiago’s neck, the shorn hair there scratching against his cheek. 

*

Camp Nou is a dull roar in the distance, the players’ voices echoing loudly in the tunnel as they get ready to walk out onto the pitch. Mario claps Jérôme and Thomas on the shoulder and tries to head past them when Thiago catches his arm, pulls him in for a tight embrace. Pushing the pricks of jealousy he feels aside, Mario hugs him back just as hard, whispering against his ear. 

“Good luck.” 

Thiago’s voice is just as low when he answers. “I’ll wait for you.” 

It’s a ridiculous promise, completely unreasonable. Mario knows Thiago won’t be able to keep it, if the opportunity to score arises, but it still makes him smile as he walks out to take his seat on the bench, the careful hope like a bright, warm spark in his chest. 

~

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback would be appreciated <3


End file.
